Cody McFadyen - Shadow Man

Leo bobs his head up and down. "Yep. But not on this computer. Hard drive isn't big enough, and there's no editing software on it. He probably brought a high-powered laptop with him."

Alan whistles. "He's a cold one, Smoky. That means he sat and edited the video while your friend was lying there dead, and Bonnie was watching. Or worse."

No one has said anything about my tears. I feel empty, but I am no longer numb. I respond.

"Cold, organized, competent, technically proficient--and he's definitely the real thing."

"What do you mean?" Leo asks.

I look at him. "He's crossed a line, as a person, and he'll never come back from that. He loved what he was doing. It really made him come alive. You're not going to do something you love that much just one time."

He looks at me, taken aback by this concept. "So now what?"

"Now you all get out, and we get James over here."

I hear my own voice as I say this, note its coldness. Well, well, I think. It's started. It's still there. How about that?

Charlie and Leo look confused. Alan understands. He smiles, not really a happy smile. "She and James need some space, is all. We have plenty to do in the meantime. You want me to take over for James at the ME's?" he asks me.

"Uh-huh . . ." My reply is distracted and distant. I barely register it when they leave. My mind is a huge, open space. My gaze is fixed on the faraway.

Because the dark train is coming.

I can hear it in the distance, chug-a-chug-a-chug-a-chug-a, belching smoke, made up of teeth and heat and shadows.

I met the dark train (as I call it) during my very first case. It is a thing hard to describe. The train of life runs on the tracks of normality and reality. It is the train most of humanity rides, from birth to death. It is filled with laughter and tears, hardships and triumphs. Its passengers are not perfect, but they do their best.

The dark train is different.

The dark train runs on tracks made of crunching, squishy things. It's the train that people like Jack Jr. ride. It's a train fueled by murder and sex and screams. It's a big, black, blood-drinking snake with wheels. If you hop off the train of life and run through the woods, you can find the dark train. You can walk next to its tracks, run alongside as it passes, get a glimpse of the weeping contents of its boxcars. Jump aboard, move through its corpse cars, through the whispers and bones, and you will reach the train's conductor. The conductor is the monster you are chasing, and he has many guises. He can be short and bald and forty. He can be tall and young and blond. Sometimes, rarely, he can be a she. On the dark train, you see the conductor as he really is, underneath the fake smiles and three-piece suits. You stare into darkness, and at that moment, if you look without flinching, you will understand. These killers I hunt are not quiet and smiling inside. Every cell in their body is an unending, eternal scream. They are gibbering and wideeyed and evil and blood-covered. They are things that masturbate as they gobble human flesh, that groan in ecstasy as they rub themselves with brains and feces. Their souls don't walk: They slither, they spasm, they crawl.

The dark train, simply, is where I remove the killer's mask in my mind. Where I look and don't turn away. It is the place where I don't back off, or excuse or look for reasons, but instead accept. Yes, his eyes are filled with maggots. Yes, he drinks the tears of murdered children. Yes, there is only murder here.

"Interesting," Dr. Hillstead had remarked during one of our sessions, after I had explained the dark train to him. "I guess my question--and my concern--Smoky, would be: Once you get on, what keeps you from never getting off the train? What keeps you from becoming the conductor?"

I had to smile. "If you see it--really see it--then there's no danger of that. You can see that you aren't like that. Not even close." I turned my head to stare at him. "If you really unmask the conductor, you realize that he's alien. He's an aberration, a different species."

He'd acknowledged me, smiled back. His eyes didn't seem convinced. What I didn't tell him was that the problem wasn't becoming the conductor. The problem was to stop seeing him, how he looked in his unmasked state. That could take months sometimes, months of waking nightmares and cold sweats at dawn. The thing that was always hardest on Matt was that it was made up of silences. Closed rooms he couldn't join me in.

That's the price you pay for riding the dark train. A part of you becomes a solitude that normal people will never have and no one else can ever enter. A little sliver of you becomes alone, forever. Standing here, in Annie's death place, I can feel it rushing toward me. When it's coming, whether I'm just watching it pass or moving through its cars, I can't have others around me. I get distant and cold and . . . not nice. The exception is a fellow hobo. Someone else who understands the train. James does. Whatever other faults he has, however much of an asshole he can be, James has the same gift. He can see the conductor, ride the rails.

Removing all the metaphors, the dark train is a place of heightened observation, created by a temporary empathy with evil. And it's unpleasant.

I look around the room, letting it seep into me. I can feel him, smell him. I need to be able to taste him, hear him. Rather than pushing him away, I need to pull him close. Like a lover.

That is the thing I never told Dr. Hillstead. I don't think I ever will. That this, that intimacy, is not only disturbing--it is addictive. It is exciting. He hunts everything. I only hunt him. But I suspect my taste for blood is just as rich and strong.

He was here, so this is where I need to be. I need to find him, and snuggle close to his shadows and maggots and screams. The first thing I sense is always the same, and this time is no different. His excitement at the invasion of another's boundaries. Human beings divide themselves, create spaces to call their own. They agree between them to respect that ownership. This is very basic, almost primal. Your home is your home. Once the door is closed, you have privacy, relief from keeping up the face you show the world. Other human beings come in only if invited. They respect this because it's what they want as well.

The first thing the monsters do, the first thing that excites them, is to cross that line. They peek into your windows. They follow you throughout your day, watching. Maybe they enter your home while you are away and walk into your private spaces, rub up against your private things. They invade.

And destruction of others is their aphrodisiac.

I remember an interview with one of the monsters I caught. His victims were young girls. Some were five, some were six, none were older. I saw the pictures of them before--bows in their hair and radiant smiles. I saw the pictures of them after--raped, tortured, murdered. Tiny corpses screaming forever. I was wrapping up, about to head out the door of the interrogation room, when the question occurred to me. I turned to him.

"Why them?" I asked. "Why the young girls?"

He smiled at me. A big, wide, Halloween smile. His eyes were two twinkling, empty wells. "Because it was the worst thing I could think of, darlin'. The badder it is"--and he'd licked his lips at this--"the better it is." He'd closed those nothing eyes and had shaken his head back and forth in a kind of reverie. "The young ones . . . GOD . . . the badness of that was just so damn sweet !"

It's rage that fuels this need. Not pinprick annoyance, but fullblown, world-on-fire rage. A constant, roaring blaze that never dies. I feel it here. As deliberate as he might want to be, in the end he destroyed in a frenzy. He was out of control.

This rage usually comes from extreme sadism visited upon them when they were children. Beatings, torture, sodomy, rape. Most of these monsters are made, by Frankenstein parents. Twisted ones create children in their own image. They beat their souls to death and send them out in the world to do unto others.